


The Only Hope For Me Is You

by alexabarton



Series: Learning Curve [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Boarding School, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Clubbing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenlock, Tongue Piercings, Top John, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last weekend before school starts and Sherlock Holmes is out on the pull.<br/>John Watson is starting a new job and a brand new life after the break down of his marriage.<br/>It's only meant to be a one-night stand until it all turns a little bit complicated.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Hope For Me Is You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's another one of my infamous distractions when I really should be finishing my WIP's
> 
> The title comes from the album Danger Days by My Chemical Romance

 

“Hold up a minute boys, let’s see some identification please”.

“I told you this was a bad idea”, Victor hissed, as Sherlock dug into his pocket with a scowl and drew out a small plastic card, the laminate peeling and battered at the edges. He tried for his most winning smile as the bouncer gave it a cursory glance and snorted loudly, his eyebrows almost climbing up into his hair. He shoved it back into Sherlock’s hand.

“Well, it’s definitely one of the better fakes…but sorry, no dice kid, nice try”.

Victor shifted uncomfortably beside him and tugged at the belt of his jeans, “Come on Sherlock, it doesn’t matter, just forget it, let’s just get a bottle from the offy and go home”.

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, for god’s sake Victor could be a pussy sometimes . Sneaking into clubs underage was half the fun, and besides, Victor had promised and Sherlock needed a shag tonight, someone to make him forget about school starting tomorrow and also to get horribly drunk or high in no particular order.

“Yeah” said the bouncer nodding in agreement, “ Do as your girlfriend says now Sherly, piss off and stop wasting my time”.

Sherlock fumed silently, ignoring the agitated murmur behind him as people in the queue became restless. A group of teenage girls in short dresses shuffled by and the bouncer merely waved them in when all of them looked nowhere near eighteen.

He curled his lip and Victor groaned, “Don’t Sherlock, just leave it, you’ll get your fucking arse kicked, come on”.

As if, Sherlock thought. The guy was big but slow and unfit, they could outrun him easily.

“The hell I will” he hissed back. “You do realise” he called, walking carefully backwards as he spoke, “That while you’re here eyeing up the underage girls in tight clothes you darling wife is busy shagging your best mate”.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Call her, she won’t answer and neither will he…if you leave right now you might catch them at it, she’s counting on you not getting home till around two”.

The bouncer advanced and Sherlock stepped back again, he heard the crack of knuckles and groped for Victor’s hand in the dark, “Oh and the baby? It’s his not yours, sorry mate…..Victor, RUN”, Sherlock shouted, laughing like a maniac as they pounded down the street, rubber soles slapping against the pavement.

They ran full pelt as lumbering footsteps followed swiftly behind, his lungs began to burn and the wind stung his eyes until finally he slowed as Victor tugged insistently on his arm begging him to stop. He stuttered to a halt, and they both collapsed back onto the wall next to a betting shop, panting heavily and sweating buckets.

“Come on then”, he said when he finally got his breath back, and they padded back along the street the way they had come, doubling back around the back of the club. It started to rain then, fat heavy drops splatting on bare skin as Sherlock eyed up a high mesh fence thoughtfully.

“You have got to be kidding me…can’t we just have a normal night out?” Victor grumbled as he cupped his hands for Sherlock to step into, boosting him up until his hands gripped the top of the fence. He swung a leg over and balanced gingerly at the drop, and reached down a hand to help Victor climb up after him. They dropped down into the yard with a splash.

“Fuck off Victor you love it really, just think you could be playing monopoly in the common room or sneaking a smoke out the dorm room window, I here I am offering adventure and excitement and the high possibility of a fuck with a good looking random”.

“Exactly”, said Victor, “Not running from twenty stone bouncers or ripping my jeans climbing fences”.

Sherlock shushed him angrily a finger pressed to his lips. When the hell did Victor get so fucking boring? He peered around the corner. The staff had jammed the fire door open for smoke breaks. Sherlock signalled for Victor to follow and they slipped into the dimly lit corridor beyond, hiding in the stairwell that stank faintly of piss until the coast was clear before creeping up the staircase and opened the door into the busy club.

The first thing that hit was the noise, a bass that pounded in his chest and then his throat that made his very bones vibrate. His ears hurt and he squinted his eyes against the flash of the lights. It always overwhelmed him at first, too much to process and he understood why people used at clubs or drank until they vomited.

Victor had shoved on ahead, shouldering his way to the bar and returned minutes later, flushed with success and brandishing a drink in each hand. With straws for god’s sake, how gay could he possibly get?

Sherlock took the bottle of beer that Victor held out to him, dropping the straw on the floor at his feet. He took a long pull and swallowed the ice cold liquid, shivering slightly as it slipped down his throat. The heat in the club was unbearable, and he grimaced as clammy beads of sweat formed on his neck and slowly rolled down to soak the neck of his t-shirt. Sherlock pressed the small brown bottle to the side of his face, figuring what would be the harm in a little condensation when it was so deliciously refreshing against his overheated skin.

It was rather disappointing if he were honest, and he wondered if it had been worth all the trouble. The same faces swam before him, the usual boring Sunday night crowd of scruffy student types and city-boy posers, who thought themselves clever to frequent the most notorious club in the area, well known for a proliferation of illicit sexual activity and raided for drugs on a monthly basis.

Sherlock sighed as he leant against a wide brick pillar, rolling his eyes at Victor who was currently, fending off the unwanted attention from a teenage girl with a non-existent gaydar. He stepped up behind him and licked a stripe up the side of Vic’s neck, sucking down hard on the skin beneath his jaw, Vic fisted a hand in the back of his hair, and dragged Sherlock’s head up, smashing their mouths together in a kiss that was as wet and noisy and as disgustingly slurpy as they could make it.

By the time they pulled apart she had gone.

“Why in the hell when all you want from life is a damn good fuck is there never anyone here I’d let anywhere near me?” Sherlock said incredulously, wiping a string of saliva from the side of his mouth.

Victor shrugged, a little ruffled, pupils blown and half-hard now, not really caring that the question was largely rhetorical, “Hey, you could always have a piece of this fine ass, you know the offer’s always there”.

Yes, he did know, and Sherlock just glared in reply. He could detect the hint of hope however flippant Victor tried to be. He gave decent head, Sherlock would admit, but letting Victor suck him again might just give him ideas and they couldn’t have that, he simply didn’t _do_ relationships.

Victor shifted uncomfortably and dropped his eyes from Sherlock’s face, glancing around the room instead, “What about him then?” he spoke into Sherlock’s ear, voice raised to be heard above the pounding techno dance track. Sherlock resisted the urge to swat him away like an annoying buzzing fly and flicked his eyes in the direction he had indicated expecting to berate him on his appalling taste in men. (Sherlock excepted of course).

“God no”, he said, glaring at a tall boy with auburn hair, standing near the bar nursing a pint glass in his hands. He was fit, Sherlock would give him that, tight black t-shirt over lean, defined muscles and artfully ripped black jeans. His hair was cut short at the nape exactly the way Sherlock preferred it, he loved the way it felt like velvet when he stroked it upwards with his fingertips. But no, in this case appearances were extremely deceptive, unfortunately. They’d shared a rather heated snog last week, until they reached the point where things naturally went further, progressed from tongues to biting, a hand under the t-shirt, loosening the belt buckle to pop the button on his jeans. And then the boy had panicked, backed off, protested he was straight and had a girlfriend, had only wanted to see what it was like to kiss a bloke, and Sherlock was hot and all that, but I’m not gonna get my dick out mate, sorry. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn’t have the time or the patience to be some bi-curious, confused, drunken idiot’s boy- on- boy experiment.

What he needed right now was someone who knew what they wanted. And he was tired of all the pathetic boys his age who hadn’t the slightest clue what they were doing. Jesus, you would hardly think they had the same functioning equipment between their legs , because their knowledge of the male erection was sadly lacking if the sloppy wet blowjobs he’d had the misfortune to experience of late had been anything to go by.

Ten more minutes, and that was it, and if he got a couple more drinks in before bedtime he might even break his own rule and let Victor do him. Really, it would be an act of mercy, the boy was so horny after their snog he was practically vibrating.

~*~

“Here, have another, looks like you bloody well need one”.

John Watson frowned but calmly took the glass from his sister’s hand. He still had a half-finished pint on the bar while Harry’s glass stood next to it, empty.

“Remind me again why you brought me here”, he said, taking a careful sip of the bitter amber liquid and wiping away the puff of foam that clung annoyingly to his lip. He scrubbed his hand dry on the back of his best jeans and watched Harry knock back a whiskey and lemonade in one gulp, she thumped the empty tumbler down turning slightly glazed eyes on him.

“Hey, you’ll be a busy little bee from tomorrow and I’ll hardly get to see you so don’t knock it little brother, I thought after…you know…a little harmless fun might be in order”.

“Ah, now we’re getting to it”, he said accusingly, “So let me get this straight…Instead of me sat at home pining for my broken marriage and wondering what the hell I did wrong, you think a one night stand with a nameless, faceless stranger will help console me in the depths of my misery?”

He aimed for sarcastic and cynical, but Harry as it turned out in her inebriated state, nodded enthusiastically. The daft cow thought he was being deadly serious, agreeing with every word. Then again, she was rat-arsed drunk, as usual.

“You got it little bro, bang on”, her voice was slightly slurred now and she swayed alarmingly on her stool. Also, that finger currently poking in the direction of his face was getting far too close to his eyeball for comfort. John shifted back a little and grasped her wrist, pushing her hand back down into her lap. “You, you gorgeous sexy thing didn’t do a damn thing wrong. Jesus Christ Johnny she played you like a fool for two years at least, so let karma bite her in the arse a bit while you’re getting your rocks off with some beautiful little….” She paused and peered at him thoughtfully, “Which way are we leaning tonight then?”

“Fuck off Harry, for god’s sake, you know that’s not how it works…I don’t have random gay nights…if I like, I like, end of”.

“Just look at the place”, she went on undeterred, “Come on Johnny boy, its heaving tonight, sexy little Uni students running wild and free, no longer under the watchful gaze of mummy and daddy with the first term’s student loan in their back pockets…pissed and gagging for it…wadda ya think?”

Her arms, to his irritation were flailing around with abandon again as she gestured wildly around the room. She did have a point though, the place was rammed for a Sunday night. And it might have been a laugh, if he didn’t still have a numb arse from sitting on a train all day, and hadn’t had a fraught conversation on the doorstep before he left with his ex, begging him to change his mind, that Andy meant nothing, it was a fling a stupid mistake and please don’t take that job, how could they sort things out when he was moving almost two hundred miles away. Yeah right, a fading love bite, that he hadn’t put there definitely screamed over, now didn’t it. And for all his sister’s faults, she hadn’t baulked when he’d asked for a place to crash until he sorted out a flat share or something. He couldn’t stay long term, they would probably kill each other before the end of the month.

“What I think”, he said, noting the glint of mischief in her face, “Is that you think I couldn’t pull anyone in here anyway, and that I’m a sad and lonely old man or something”.

She grinned evilly at him.

“Fuck off Harry, I just got out a shitty fucking relationship…and I’m only fucking thirty- two”.

When he was annoyed the language turned, how do you say, colourful, which made Harry’s smile even wider, knowing she had him rattled.

Fuck.

Again.

“Okay….right, you pick someone then…, anyone you like, preferably someone you reckon is out of my league, and I guarantee you I’ll pull, no problem”.

John sincerely wished he was half as confident as he sounded. But maybe it would do him good to feel something, that thrill of excitement in the pit of your gut, instead of the blank hollow nothingness of the past few months. In limbo waiting for his world to end, and now it had, and he was here, and the least he could do was to prove to himself he was still alive, to be John Watson again.

God, he was so going to regret this in the morning (or sooner), he thought checking out the crowds of significantly younger and much fitter bodies. He tugged at the front of his new checked shirt self-consciously, aware of the ever expanding paunch he’d developed from a few too many years of takeaway’s, beer and desk jobs. Depressingly, thirty-two felt ancient in comparison. He sucked in a breath and bravely scanned the crowd.

“Those two over there” Harry smirked, getting in first, and he followed the line of her outstretched hand keenly aware of the note of triumph in her voice, sniffing victory before they’d even started. “You’ve got no chance Johnny”, she crowed in delight, “The dark one looks like a Calvin Klein ad and the sandy one’s prettier than I am”.

Wow, was all he could think, unhelpfully. But she was right though, he might as well just give up now, cause those kids, either of them, were never going to give him the time of day, he may as well go home and wank, probably over images of the two, dancing, grinding up against each in the middle of a sweaty club with John wishing he was sandwiched in between in a three-way.

“Not a chance, maybe ten years ago…only being realistic, I mean look at them…and then look at me, come on”.

Harry rolled her eyes, “You underestimate your attract….attrac…good-looking…ness…go on, free Chinese for a week?” she wheedled, and John hated himself a little because he was actually considering it too. Harry sensed his hesitation and punched him in the arm, making his beer slop over the side of the glass and splash all over his feet and the floor. “Come on John, you could get one of those two easy, you never know, if they’re an item you might get both…or failing that they might let you watch”.

“You”, he said with a shake of his head, “Are truly fucking disgusting”.

But he couldn’t deny he was interested now that the seed had been planted. The sandy one was cute in a boy next door, plays a lot of outdoor sports sort of way, but the dark one was fucking incredible. His skin looked like it had never been exposed to a UV ray, flawlessly pale and shimmering possibly from some sort of body cream. Shit, now there was an image, long pale fingers slowly massaging soft lotion into his skin, dewy and fresh from the shower, before sliding his long legs into tight black, slashed at the knee jeans. His hair was a tousled mess, whether by artful design or hot and sweaty dancing John couldn’t really tell, but John loved the way it bounced as he moved, getting in his eyes a bit, the other boy reaching forward to gently brush it back. Dark hair had his arms draped over the other boys’ shoulders and he leaned in then, whispered something in his ear, smiling softly, foreheads pressed gently together. The other boy looked down coyly a small smile playing at his lips and John’s heart sank a little. Harry was probably right, they looked intimate, a couple, devastatingly cute and enviable boyfriends, grinding up against each other on the dancefloor. He felt like a leering old perv as the dark one tipped up the chin of his friend with a gentle finger and pressed a kiss to his lips, two chaste pecks at first and then mouths open and tongues swirling deep and dirty. They broke apart and laughed together, and it was then that John noticed a pair of rather disappointed young girls who had been eyeing the pair hopefully. Dark hair smirked and whispered to his friend again who waved an empty bottle in his face, then turned and walked away towards the bar, his face turned blank as he narrowed his eyes and glanced around as if looking for someone.

Interesting, John thought, someone was playing games, and it wasn’t exactly difficult to work out which one.

“Mr dark and chiselled cheekbones”, he turned to Harry, “You might want to wear your noise-cancelling headphones when I bring him home tonight, I’ve got a feeling he’s gonna be loud”.

~*~

“Your turn”, said Victor, waving his empty bottle at Sherlock as the two girls that had been eyeing them up for the last half hour, finally got the message and moved away, disappointed.

Victor flicked Sherlock’s face with watery droplets, and so he huffed, and turned, glad to put a little distance between them and pushed through the press of bodies to take his place at the bar before closing time. Better get two each while he was here. The entire club it would seem had exactly the same idea, annoyingly, and he stood, three deep trying to ignore the way his Converse stuck to the tacky green carpet, people pressing in behind, brushing sweaty limbs against his body and the occasional not-so-innocent hand on his arse or the curve of his waist.

The back of his neck tingled. Someone was watching him. There, in the corner of the bar beside the DJ booth, he was standing with a woman in a blue floral top and tight jeans, she was swaying rather precariously on her stool. Pissed, and her partner, husband? No, a family resemblance, brother or cousin? Looking less than amused. He was a new face though, someone he hadn’t noticed here before. On the short side, blond hair, prematurely streaked with grey, and a trim looking body in a blue checked shirt and jeans. A ring, now that was interesting, married then, or possibly separated. They were deep in conversation, or she was, anyway, talking intently her words punctuated by wild gesticulations, leaning in close to him to be heard above the pulsating beat. They looked out of place here, thirtysomethings at an educated guess, at a club where the average punter, especially on a weekend, would barely be out of their teens.

The man nodded in agreement to something she said, his eyes flickering up to rove around the room again. He paused when he caught Sherlock staring and smiled, mouth quirking up at the corners in the ‘ _I know you see me, and you know what I want from you, so how about we take this outside?_ ’ type of look. Sherlock knew it well, used it on a regular basis himself, saw the signs and understood the cues, so he nodded his head in acknowledgement and was rewarded with a raise of the eyebrows and a smug little grin.

Openly bisexual, even more intriguing, but Sherlock shouldn’t just assume, he may have a husband not a wife.

A hand clamped down hard on his shoulder and he swung around angrily ready to punch the bastard in the gob if he needed to.

“Christ, chill out Sherlock, bloody hell you’re wired tonight”, Victor raised his hands in apology, “I just came to see what was taking so long, some creep just stuck his tongue in my ear and I said you were my boyfriend so he’d leave… it’s like a fucking meat market in here tonight”.

Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused, not even pretending to listen. He chugged the last of his beer, wiped a hand across the back of his mouth and seeing nowhere to stash the empty, he shoved it into Victor’s hands with a wink and said, “Don’t wait up”, with no further explanation. He slapped him on the shoulder his eyes still fixed across the room on the bloke who stood, hands in pockets, waiting, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Ah you fucking prick”, Victor groaned, realising where this conversation was going, “I might’ve guessed you’d pull last minute…listen, I’ll leave the window open for you just this once and don’t fucking blame me if you get caught…. but text me if you’re not coming back yeah?….”

Sherlock pinched his cheeks sarcastically, Victor slapped his hand away and told him he was a prick, “Christ, relax, you’re such an old woman these days Victor, I promise I’ll be home, all tucked up nice in bed, and up in time for school in the morning like a good little boy”.

“Just be careful Sherlock”, Victor frowned, laying a hand on his arm in a surprisingly protective gesture. He was used to Sherlock copping off last minute, but some of his choices could be questionable to put it mildly, and he scanned the room to see just why Sherlock was in such a hurry to leave. “Safe, sane and consensual, right?” he said, wondering how the hell Sherlock could be so blasé, “He gets freaky or tries to get rough or anything, get the hell out of there and call me okay?”.

“Whatever would I do without my trusty wingman eh?”

“Be found dead in a ditch somewhere…oh, I don’t know, maybe OD’d, raped, _murdered_ ….”

“Fuck off Victor…you’re not my mum”, Sherlock scoffed. And people called him a drama queen? Victor Trevor could out-queen them all. Honestly, it was quite adorable how much Victor worried about him but there was really no need. Sherlock knew several ways to both kill or incapacitate, and the last bloke who’d tried to take more than was offered by force, well, let’s just say he wouldn’t be using his dick anytime soon. Who would have guessed that a penile fracture would be so very, _very_ painful and make one writhe on the cold hard ground squealing like the pig he was.

“I’m serious mate, really…I wish to hell you’d stop doing shit like this and calm the fuck down”.

Sherlock hesitated briefly before he turned on his heel and walked away, snaking his way through the crowd to leave Victor alone at the bar. It was fine. Victor knew the score, Sherlock could look after himself so no cock-blocking allowed. Or so he tried to tell himself. Victor never did understand the older guy thing, as if blokes their own age weren’t capable of hurting you, emotionally, physically, or otherwise; stab you in the heart with words or with a knife.

Age never really came into it.

The early autumn air made him shiver as he stepped out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street, and Sherlock wondered if just this once he had read this wrong and the guy hadn’t meant for him to follow, until a figure stepped out of the shadows twenty yards away and walked towards him calmly, hands in pockets.

“I haven’t seen you here before” Sherlock said, and cringed at just how obvious that statement had been, bland and boring and not at all the impression he hoped to make. And what exactly was that? That he knew what he was doing, in control, confident, sexy? It was always a fine line with the older ones, which role they wanted you to play, impressionable little twink that they could show what to do or just a fit young body they could fuck through the mattress and treat like a dirty whore.

He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and slid one from the carton, pressing it between his lips, alarmed at the flicker of nerves, his stomach a seething mass of butterflies. What the fuck. Who the hell was this guy? Sherlock couldn’t get a read on him, confidence and insecurity, a calm exterior and an inner turbulence. Sherlock sensed danger, but not of the physical kind. It shouldn’t have been such a turn-on, but damn it, he wanted to know _everything_ about this man.

The stranger flashed him an easy smile. “New to the area, thought I’d check out the local wildlife, you know, before I start my new job tomorrow”. The look he gave Sherlock was devouring, scoping Sherlock’s body from top to toe. He reached for his lighter, annoyed at the way his fingers shook a little. “Er…could you not please…I mean, if we’re going to, you know, I’d rather you didn’t…just gave up recently, the taste would only…”, he paused and licked his lip while staring at Sherlock’s mouth, “Tempt me”.

Ah, Sherlock thought, and a shiver ran down his spine as the guy advanced towards him, pressing him back against the cool rough brick of the building and plucking the unlit fag from his mouth. Well that was unexpected, he gasped in surprise, and before he had the time to process another thought, the bloke was on him, bodies flush together and a hand behind his neck to pull him down. Sherlock jerked back, caught off-guard and they paused, breathing heavily simply staring at each other unblinking.

He was scared and aroused simultaneously, and Sherlock wasn’t scared of anyone or anything.

Usually.

“That boy”, the man whispered hoarsely, “ is he your boyfriend?, cause if he is this is cruel, I could see it from across the room the kid couldn’t take his eyes off you, I bet you like that don’t you eh? Keep him dangling, hopelessly besotted while you fuck whoever you want?”.

Sherlock shrugged and bit his lip, which he knew would give him away, but he just couldn’t seem to find any words of denial because annoyingly the bastard was right. He finally blurted out, “No, don’t have a boyfriend”, sounding like a child in the process. His customary snark and eloquence had evaded him.

“Oh, is that so?” the bloke smiled, “Treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen…bet he’s still yours for the taking though whenever you get the urge, it’s written all over the poor bugger’s face….is he your fall back fuck when there’s no-one else around?”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t, not at all…I’m just trying to work out what I’m dealing with here, sweet young innocent…or slutty little cock- tease”.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in the clear, unwavering gaze. Deep blue eyes looked back into his, “And just so you know”, the guy continued, “There is no right or wrong answer…in case you were wondering”.

“And where’s the fun if I just tell you”, said Sherlock, aiming to regain his composure, “You’re going to have to find that out for yourself”.

The guy nodded, “Okay…don’t you even want to know my name… I’m John by the way…not that we have to be on a first name basis or anything…”

“Don’t give a fuck” Sherlock lied, but his patience was gone, if he’d wanted a tease he could have tried another round with last week’s straight guy, but Sherlock was done with waiting for tonight. He pressed his lips against the older man’s, tilted his head and flicked his tongue out.

“Oh god”, John whispered, “Is that?”

Sherlock smiled, savouring the hunger in those deep blue eyes, “Do you like it? Somehow I thought you might”. But all that he heard was a rather strangled moan in response. John thrust his own tongue out to meet Sherlock’s, humming in approval as they tangled together, dancing and sliding the tip of John’s coming back again and again teasing at the metal bar through Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock pulled back for air, breathless and panting.

“What are you thinking?” he gasped.

“What that bar’s going to feel like when you suck my cock”.

“Exceptionally good, or so I’ve been told….and you said _going_ to….someone’s feeling very confident and might not be that type of boy”.

“The hell you are”, John growled and dragged his head back down again, sucking on Sherlock’s full bottom lip and nipping at the swollen flesh until it stung. Sherlock pushed his hands under the back of John’s shirt, and ran his nails down the smooth warm skin, digging in just a little too hard until John got the message and pulled back, his kisses turning soft and languid.

“Hmm”, John hummed, “You’re quite the dirty little fuck now aren’t you….where in hell did you come from?”

“I’ve been around”, said Sherlock, smirking.

“Oh I’ll bet you have…”

The club was spilling out now, and rather than put on a show for an audience of drunken pervs, Sherlock dragged at John’s arm and pulled him around the side of the building into the alleyway. There was always the risk they would be caught out here anyway, but John hadn’t offered an alternative and his dorm room was definitely out of the question. Especially since John was under the mistaken impression that Sherlock went to Uni, and was not in reality an A-Level student at the private boarding school down the road.

The noise from the street was muffled here, a high wall, three storeys on either side, a tall mesh fence with a padlocked door in the middle at the other end, only one way in and one way out. He pulled John in after him and faced him, back to the wall again, and John reached down, his left hand gripped at the top of Sherlock’s thigh, gently coaxing him to lift it up to wrap it around his hip. John braced and then lifted him from the ground. He was surprisingly strong, scooping up Sherlock’s lanky frame with ease and backing him into the wall more firmly, John used his body weight to pin Sherlock there.

He could feel him, his erection pressed hard against his arse, and he moaned, squeezing his legs even tighter around John’s body, cheeks flushed with the rush of arousal.

“I would fuck you like this if I could”, John growled, “would you let me….let me take you, right here in a dirty alley against a wall?”

“Mm god….oh yes”, he mumbled, almost rendered incoherent. He gasped as he slid back down the wall a little, skin scraping, his t-shirt no protection against the cold rough brick. John pressed his body in harder, hands gripping him under his arse to stop him from falling. He mouthed at Sherlock’s chest, his breath felt hot against the peaks of his nipples where they poked out, hard under the thin material of his t-shirt.

“You like that huh? Does it feel good yeah?”

Sherlock could barely think let alone form the words to answer John, and how was he supposed to function anyway with John’s mouth on his neck now, sucking hard and biting down, tongue licking over the hot stinging skin. And fuck, the man’s hands just _did things_ to him. Sherlock considered the possibility that he might still be high, every sensation magnified, every touch sending shudders of pure pleasure coursing through his body. He buried his face in John’s shoulder as John stroked his warm hands up and down Sherlock’s denim clad thighs. If this was what it felt like still fully clothed what the hell would it feel like naked, and in a warm bed? And god, he wanted that so very, very much right now.

“John”, he whispered in a rough, cracked voice sounding nothing like himself, “Take me home, now, please, back to your place…I…I want you”.

“Of course you do”, John smiled into his skin, cupping his chin with one hand and slowly kissing him. Sherlock couldn’t make sense of it. Victor’s touch, in fact any of the men had had been with in the recent past had left him cold and empty inside, unsatisfied. None of them had even come close to…whatever the hell this was. Even to his own ears he sounded desperate and he flushed.

What the hell must John think and why should Sherlock care, it was just another fuck, a one-night stand, wasn’t it?

John stepped back a little, lifted his steadying weight from Sherlock’s chest but sliding his hands down to press firmly beneath Sherlock’s arse, cupping him, while he unlocked his ankles and gently lowered himself to the ground. He sagged against John, legs still shaking.

“Well, seeing as you asked so nicely” John said.

A few questioning glances were cast their way as they stepped out again onto the pavement outside the club. They held hands, fingers clasped tightly together while John paced them up and down the kerb, looking for a taxi to flag, and it just seemed right, natural when he normally found unnecessary physical contact for activities other than fucking quite loathsome.

The taxi ride to John’s place (naturally it had to be there), was a haze of soft touches, Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder, John’s fingers softly brushing through his hair. Sherlock thought he might combust, the trial of fire such an innocent activity caused burning in his chest and flowing in waves down into his stomach. He tried to touch John, run a hand between his thighs and was startled at a tight firm grip around his wrist, pushing his hand away again.

“Patience, we can’t…not here”, John whispered. And Sherlock glanced up to see the driver eyeing them with disapproval through the rear view mirror. He turned his head slightly into John’s neck and slid his tongue out teasingly, giving tiny little licks at the skin. He heard John’s breath catch in his throat and smiled.

“No-one ever says no to you do they?”

Sherlock hummed the affirmative and went back to worrying the skin beneath John’s ear. John shifted restlessly in his seat and tugged at the front of his jeans, staring dead ahead .

“The things I’m gonna do when I get you home”, he whispered darkly.

“I can hardly wait”.

~*~

“SSH”, John hissed, as a very enthusiastic young body pressed against his back and he missed the keyhole again. “Damn it, fuck!” he said, rather loudly as the key slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Sherlock giggled beside him and bent to scoop it up, the arse of his low cut jeans revealing a delicious glimpse of porcelain skin, just ripe for sticking his teeth in.

The door popped open and they stumbled inside. The flat was dark and silent, so Harry must still be out John thought pushing the door shut with his shoulder and leaning heavily against it. John needed a moment to collect himself. The taxi ride home had been….intense, and he could hardly believe that Sherlock (an extraordinary name for an extraordinary boy) was actually here in his sister’s flat, because in truth John had expected rejection, not a lithe and gorgeous dark-haired angel with a tongue piercing. Or should that be devil, he corrected as Sherlock proceeded to suck the hell out of his neck. Shit, his new employers would be less than impressed if he rocked up to work covered in love-bites.

He gently pushed Sherlock back and silvery eyes stared down at him questioningly. Christ, he was tall. And bloody hell he was turned on right now. His cock throbbed painfully against the seam of his jeans.

“Problem?” Sherlock breathed, and his hands darted forward to wrestle with John’s belt instead. He sank back again with a thump and sighed with relief as Sherlock pulled down the zip, popped the button and wrestled the stiff blue denim down his thighs. John barely had time to inhale a sharp breath when his pants were yanked down too and a large cool hand wrapped firmly around his aching erection.

“Bloody hell”, he gasped when Sherlock drew his hand up in one long, teasing pull, “No problem, not at all, how about you show me what that pretty mouth can do?”

Sherlock smirked and poked his tongue out, teasing the bar between his teeth. John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face in his palms, rubbing his thumbs over those impossible cheekbones. He moved closer, breath mingling, warm and humid between them and licked out at that plump bottom lip sucking on it gently then nipping lightly before he drew back. Sherlock shuddered and bent down to capture John’s mouth again, pressing eagerly inside the seam of his lips the metal bar clicking against John’s teeth. It felt amazing, warm wet tongue and smooth cool metal, swirling and sliding in his mouth. He slid a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and buried his fingers in the mass of soft dark curls, squeezing and pulling while Sherlock pressed forward, his hand still working John’s cock. He could feel a curl of heat in his gut, balls growing tighter and he jerked his head back, panting.

“I’m not going to stand here and come with my pants round my knees against a door”. Sherlock let go and he winced. “Not that that wasn’t pretty damn good, but you know, I do actually have a perfectly good bedroom”.

“Worried about your back old man?” Sherlock smirked, grabbing him by the hand and heading through the kitchen towards the bedrooms. “Standard layout…it’s this one here, am I right?” he said cheekily, kicking open the half open door and dragging John in after him.

The room was a mess of boxes and crates, his life in brown cardboard and plastic, just waiting to start again. And there on his bed, the bed he hadn’t even slept in yet, messing up the clean lines and neatly tucked fresh cotton sheets was Sherlock. John stood, dumbfounded pants flapping around his thighs as Sherlock proceeded to divest himself of every stitch of clothing and flopped back onto the bed, scooting backwards until his head touched the pillows.

“Well?” Sherlock said, “Do you want your cock sucked or what?”

Get a fucking grip Watson. You’ve got a hot little piece of ass in your bed and you’re just standing here like a moron staring?

But what a fucking sight. John’s eyes took in the glorious image of perfect long limbs, a smooth pale chest and a stomach, tight as a drum and wash-board flat and the dark thatch of hair surrounding Sherlock’s cock. He palmed himself, completely unashamed in smooth languid strokes, thumb flicking over the head to spread the leaking pre-come down the shaft.

He never broke eye contact.

Right, clothes. Off. Now.

John hopped on the spot, tugging the damned jeans that snagged on his ankles, and kicking them across the floor. His clumsy fingers had obviously forgotten how buttonholes worked and he huffed and struggled growing impatient when the last two wouldn’t give and ripping it off over his head instead. He was embarrassingly eager, but it was ages since he’d fucked a bloke, and shit, his stomach flipped uncomfortably, but he had to ask, fingers crossed, “Erm….bottom or top?”

Sherlock looked supremely unconcerned, and hit it straight on the head, like a fucking sexual psychic or something. “Your most recent relationship was a woman, so naturally I believe you’d rather top this time…fine, go ahead, I don’t mind….” , he lay back against the pillows again and sighed, arching his back and wriggling until he got comfortable.

“God that voice”, John said, “Do you have any fucking idea?”, he crawled across the bed and Sherlock rolled forward onto his stomach, arms tucked beneath his body his head turned to face him. John straddled him, arse resting on the backs of his thighs and stroked his hand up the length of his strong smooth back, thumbing and kneading the tight, perfect muscles. He kneaded his fingers in the back of Sherlock’s neck and the boy groaned into the pillows. “I do believe I was promised a blow- job”, he whispered.

“Bastard”, said Sherlock wriggling beneath him. He groaned again, the friction against the covers and the pressure of John’s arse must have been driving him crazy. He was young, he could cope, and it would teach him a little patience John thought cruelly, unable to focus much beyond the thought of that piercing rubbing over his cock. They swapped places and John sat with his back against the headboard, legs spread so that Sherlock could wriggle between them.

“No offence John”, he said, “I’m not doubting your integrity, but picking up randoms in a nightclub…I’m going to have to insist”, he glanced down at John’s cock pointedly.

“Ah god, condoms sorry…bit out of practice…haven’t done this for a while”.

He fumbled in the bedside drawer and found an unopened packet and a bottle of lube that Harry had bought him. (Just in case, you never know).

Sherlock ripped the packet with his teeth and John winced at little at the flash of arousal as he expertly rolled it down. It was four years five months since he’d last wrapped his dick, it felt weird, less intense, which would probably come in useful right about now…

And then that talented tongue took control. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled slightly in disgust at the acrid taste of lubricated latex as John just shuddered beneath him, trying to process the different sensations. The hard metal ball rolling up and down his cock and the heat of Sherlock’s tongue pressing down. It got even better when he wrapped his lips around the head and suckled lightly. Flicking at the head with the tip of his tongue and rolling the ball across the slit. It was like a fucking electric shock and he jerked up helplessly. Sherlock placed a warning hand on his hip and he dropped his arse back down onto the bed.

“Too much?” Sherlock asked.

“A bit” he admitted. It was gorgeous felt amazing, but two more minutes and he’d be shooting off like a rocket and he hadn’t been inside Sherlock yet. And that, John realised is what he really, really wanted, that tight little arse bouncing on his cock until he screamed.

Christ he was a dirty old man.

Sherlock reached for the lube and squeezed some out onto his fingers. He cocked an eyebrow as John frowned at him, “What?”

“Don’t you want me to?....” John gestured in the general…downstairs area and blushed rather embarrassingly.

Really, how were you supposed to ask? Pardon me but do you happen to be in need of a damn good fingering?

Sherlock pushed John’s legs together and straddled his body, “No, I want you to watch”. He raised himself up onto his knees and reached his lubed fingers behind and underneath, moaning softly obviously circling his hole. John raised himself up on his elbows to see better, Christ, he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“Just look at you, you gorgeous thing….that poor boy wouldn’t have a clue what to do with you now would he?”

“You have no idea”.

“Oh believe me I do”.

Sherlock shuddered, sinking a finger into his body, he rolled his hips and his mouth fell open. He placed his right hand on John’s stomach to steady himself and rocked up and down slowly. John could see the tension in his thighs, the way the muscles quivered with every shallow little thrust. The steady rhythm stuttered a little as he eased another finger inside his own body and dropped forward, body curled over John’s fucking faster against his own hand. His breath ghosted over John’s body as he panted desperately, hips slowing and stuttering to a halt.

“Move back”, Sherlock gasped, pushing back on his shoulder and he dutifully shuffled until his spine made contact with the headboard. For comfort’s sake he grabbed the pillow trapped under his arse and stuffed in behind him instead. Sherlock climbed into his lap and pressed his lips against his neck, biting and nipping his way along John’s jaw until he fisted that fucking wild hair again and pulled his mouth up to where it was supposed to be. Right against his.

Sherlock hummed happily, “Lazy bastard letting me do all the work”.

“Well my little fuck-buddy, I’d quite like you to ride the hell out of me now”.

“You’re seduction technique leaves a lot to be desired, is that all I am to you? A cute little fuck-toy for the night?”

Sherlock was joking, of course, he knew that, but John felt a deep pang of guilt all the same at his piss-poor choice of words. This boy was something special, anyone with half a brain could see that and of course this meant something, even if John wasn’t sure quite what yet. He swallowed thickly realising he didn’t want this to be a one night thing, the thought that he might never see Sherlock again left him feeling oddly devastated. He growled in annoyance as the back of his throat began to sting and heady rush of white noise filled his ears.

Sherlock bit his lip and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would help, as if he hadn’t just opened up his chest and revealed himself. Christ, why did he always have to complicate things when this wasn’t supposed to mean anything? His pressed his forehead against the Sherlock’s, “Someone like you would always mean something, how could you not know that?....I want you, want this….I really fucking do, but if you think I’m the type of bloke who would treat you like some sort of….object, I think….I think you should probably go”.

“I don’t want to go” Sherlock peppered his face with soft kisses, stroking at his chest with trembling fingertips. “I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to sleep with you…I need this too….please?”

“Oh god”, John gasped, “Yes, god please…whatever you want Sherlock”.

He sucked in a breath when Sherlock took his cock in hand again, and steadying it at the base he hovered over, spread his legs a little more and teased the livid red head around his entrance. John felt pressure, delicious warmth as he reflexively pushed up with his hips. He felt Sherlock tense, the head just breaching his body. And he paused, reaching down for the discarded tube of lube, signalled for John to raise his hand and squirted a generous amount into his open palm. He nodded in understanding and spread the cool gel around Sherlock’s hole where it strained around his cock and the rest slicked down his shaft. Sherlock bore down again, a little easier this time and they panted and grunted in unison until finally he bottomed out and sat flush in John’s lap.

“How does it feel?”

“How do you think? Full, very full….oh I don’t know….like having a seven inch cock up my arse”.

“Seven? How very dare you”, John laughed, Sherlock joining in after a second or two, his deep voice rumbling. And god, what it did on the inside, the muscles of his hot, tight passage, clenching beautifully around John's dick. He groaned and Sherlock rolled his hips experimentally.

They took it slowly at first, tentative shifts and wriggles while Sherlock adjusted to the stretch and got comfortable and this was good, just perfect , John wanted it to last. Sherlock eased up gently and dropped back down again, letting gravity take over the hard part, hissing a little until the slick of extra lube on John’s dick worked its way inside. And then he really started to move, gradual shifts became harsher and more pronounced, the pace increasing and volume ramping up. The rhythmic slapping of damp, sweaty skin resonating throughout the room. Sweat ran down Sherlock’s chest, his soaked and clammy curls clung to his forehead. Each breath came out in a huff as if forced from his lungs and he strained with the effort, the headboard banging on the wall behind biting through both paper and the plaster beneath. Harry would kill him, kill them both, John thought, but as she was partly responsible for this epic fucking shag, maybe she would let him off just this once.

As if he’d read John’s mind, Sherlock grasped the headboard in his right hand and the banging stopped. But this only meant he had the leverage to thrust back faster, bouncing wildly in John’s lap. He didn’t seem to care that his own erection bobbed neglected and achingly hard between them. It was the least he could do, John thought, taking in the cock bobbing temptingly in front of him. He reached between their bodies, and curled his palm around the shaft, matching his pulls to Sherlock’s thrusts.

“John…I don’t….I can’t….oh god”. He could feel Sherlock tensing around him, the impossible grip around his cock grew even tighter, hot ribbons of come, pulsing out to coat his hand and splat upon his chest. Sherlock sagged a little then, as John milked the last drops from his cock, stroking him through the aftermath of his orgasm. It would be tempting to flip him now, lay him on his back so that John could pound into him, but he wanted it like this, Sherlock on top, firm lean body, strong thighs and taught buttocks, sweaty and messy and covered in come and so very fucking masculine.

He’d almost forgotten how good this felt, velvety hot and pulsating, the friction as you pushed against the resistance. Every thrust and drag was like fire and sin and white hot blinding pleasure and John wondered how he’d ever lived without this feeling for five long years.

Perhaps that was it, perhaps he hadn’t been living at all, a half-life, blundering through the days and wasting away when all that he needed was this, the primal urge to fuck and be fucked, sweaty and nasty and so incredibly exhilarating.

It bubbled in his chest and burst out from his throat, a laugh that was a sob and he planted his feet in the mattress, grasped Sherlock’s bony hips and thrust up hard to meet him, balls slapping loudly against his arse, fucking up into him to chase his own release.

Christ that was it, he could feel it building within him, he was coming, he was coming…Now, Now, Now.

He bucked up roughly, fingers digging harshly into Sherlock’s sides, one, two, three times, and held them suspended while he spilled into the condom sheathed in Sherlock’s body feeling like something had broken within him, like he’d been torn apart at the seams. He was shaking, trmors running through his legs and body as he lowered his arse back down onto the bed. His legs collapsed and he fought to steady his erratic breaths.

Finally, calmer, when the world had slowed down a little his hands slid up to circle Sherlock’s waist, and he pulled him forward until they lay pressed chest to sticky chest. He exhaled.

It felt glorious.

“Did I hurt you?”, he said after a tranquil few minutes, trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back. “I’m sorry if I did, you know, might’ve got a bit carried away there…but jesus the way you….oh god….that was just…”, he trailed off again, not even sure what he was trying to say. It just had to be something, anything.

Sherlock was too quiet, head nestled in the crook of John’s shoulder. Sherlock shook his head then in response and gingerly lifted his hips up. He hissed a little, holding John’s softening cock at the base and easing off slowly to keep the condom intact, he pulled it off, careful not to spill the sticky load, tied it off and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. Shit, John should have remembered, he was supposed to have dealt with that.

“No” said Sherlock, his eyes still a little unfocused, “That was ….god…..that was yeah….shit….I ….fuck, right…I don’t know what to say”.

“In a good way?” John asked, nervously.

“Yeah”, Sherlock smiled, “You could say that”.

~*~

Sherlock curled up under cool cotton sheets and John curled around him from behind, cradling his body, their legs tangled together. John had left him for a short while afterwards, and he had lain blinking up at the ceiling covered in sweat and come and wondering how the hell he had ended up here and why he was pretty damn sure he’d just had the best sex of his life. John came back with a warm damp flannel and wiped at the mess on Sherlock’s chest, stroking gently, and Sherlock reached out a hand, because he had to, and ran his thumb across John’s soft lips.

“Hey you”, John said and bent forward hands braced by Sherlock’s head and kissed him. He dropped the used flannel on the floor and climbed back beneath the sheets where they kissed, slow and unhurried now, John dipping his tongue back again and again to swipe across his piercing. “You could stay…if you want”, John said hesitantly.

Sherlock froze. He had made it a rule to never ever stick around, get off, get out, go home, that was what he did, who he was. But he wanted to stay this time, with John’s warm, solid presence, needed to know more about him, ask endless questions until his throat was raw, remember every detail of this room, of John, John’s body, every second in this lumpy old bed. Never seeing John again would feel like someone had torn his heart from his chest and stomped all over it. The thought made him want to scream and he didn’t know why. So he said nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment and kissed John again until the gnawing fear subsided and his eyes grew heavy with sleep and the world slipped into darkness.

He woke with a start around five. John’s sister had just come back from wherever the hell she had been last night, bumping and crashing around the flat. John groaned and lifted his head. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned over, checking to see if the noise had woken him.

“Sorry”, he whispered, “She does that… dozy cow”.

“It’s fine”, Sherlock yawned, “I’ve been awake for ages…listen, thanks for letting me stay the night… but I need to go”.

He sat up, unsure why he’d said all that. To leave was the last thing he wanted even now in the cold, hard light of day, but a stab of irrational panic made his stomach lurch and he tossed back the covers casting around for his discarded clothes.

“At least let me make you some breakfast”, John said. He looked younger, strangely, sunlight hitting his face through a crack in the curtains. He put up a hand to shield his eyes , the crumpled sheet pooling around his waist. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to crawl back in that bed and climb on top of him again, to spend the day fucking and sleeping and fucking some more. His arse still hurt and it felt wonderful.

“I never eat breakfast”.

“Coffee then?”

Sherlock sighed. He would never get out of here with his pride intact at this rate. John was probably just being polite. What would a man like John want with him, other than to brag to his mates that he’d had him, took him home for the night and shagged his brains out. Better to cut this dead before he made a fool of himself, push it from his mind, or lock it in a special place to pour over again and again.

Maybe.

He shook his head, “Don’t drink it” he lied, regretting it immediately when he saw John’s face crumple a little and frown. Sherlock wanted to kiss him then, smooth those lines and see him smile. It had been nice to be wanted, truly wanted for a while.

John sighed, and made his final attempt to break Sherlock’s resolve of ‘don’t get involved’, “Would you maybe….I don’t know…I thought it might be nice….look, I’m crap at all this but I really, really enjoyed what we did…so would you maybe like to do it again sometime?….I could take you out somewhere if you’d like”.

Sherlock turned to look at him, poised in the act of pulling on his jeans, “You mean…like, a date?” he asked uncertain, thinking this might just be about the sex.

“Yes”, John smiled, “That’s exactly what I mean. Here…”, he fumbled on the floor for his own crumpled jeans, pulled his phone out of the pocket and tossed it across the bed. It bounced and landed in his lap. “Ring yourself, save the number…I have no idea how work will go this week, but can I see you Friday? That is if you haven’t already got plans…with your friend”.

John was still worried about Victor. John wanted to see him again, for a date, an actual date, and not just sex. They would still fuck, that was a given, but he wanted to take Sherlock out, in public, where people might think they were a couple and it would be normal and wonderful and what he had wanted all along without knowing. He punched in his number, his fingers shaking slightly, and let out a breath as his own phoned chimed in his pocket.

“No, I haven’t got plans”, he said, “And I’d like that…the…thing…you were suggesting…so yes, a date Friday would be nice”.

Sherlock groaned inwardly, could he possibly sound even more of an idiot? Nice? What sort of pathetic thing to say was that? John however, didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact he was beaming, humming to himself as he ruffled his fingers through his short blond hair.

“Great”, said John, crawling over to join him on the edge of the bed, “Now I know you won’t just disappear….and if I’m honest I didn’t think you’d still be here this morning….but I’m really glad you are ”.

He climbed out of bed then, dropping a quick kiss to Sherlock’s head and padded to his chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of old blue striped pyjama pants and pulled them on. “How about a tea before you scarper….or I could drop you if you want, I have to pass the University I think, for work….”

Sherlock realised then, he really didn’t want to go anywhere anymore. “Tea, that would be lovely thanks”.

~*~

Three hours, a shower, two cups of tea and a slice of toast later, Sherlock crept across the silent school grounds. He’d wriggled out of the lift to Uni, claiming he had to go back to his digs for books and clothes, which wasn’t too far from the truth as it happened. Most of the school would be in the mess hall eating breakfast dressing for classes, or if you were Victor Trevor, still in bed with the covers pulled over his head. Sherlock could see him through the window, still open just as he had promised thank god. Sherlock would be eternally grateful they’d managed to bag a room on the ground floor this year, he’d had two sprained ankles last term, from falling off window ledges pissed in the dark. Pulling all-nighter’s was Sherlock’s speciality.

Sherlock eased himself up and pushed the sash up further, it stuck so he gave it a shove with his shoulder, hooking his right hand underneath the frame. He winced at the noise, a teeth-jarring squeal. Victor stirred and popped his head out from under the blankets with a groan.

“Fucks sake Sh’lock”.

Sherlock padded across the room and ripped the covers off roughly, “Get up shithead it’s after eight and you stink of fucking beer”.

“And you”, said Victor, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, “Look exactly like someone who got his arse fucked last night. Nice decoration”, he added, pointing to Sherlock’s throat.

He crossed to the mirror on the wardrobe door. John had marked him up good. Three livid purple bruises, two above his collarbone and one on his neck, just below his left ear. Fuck. That was detention for sure, and it was only the first day of term. A new personal record. His parents would be so proud.

“You are such a fucking slut”, Victor sniggered, “Mr Davies is gonna have a heart attack when he see’s that”.

“Yes, that’ll be after I’ve been condemned to eternal hellfire for my unnatural urges the homophobic old bastard….I really don’t care”, he flopped down heavily on his bed, until Victor began throwing random items of clothing at his head.

“Get the fuck up, I am not sitting through registration and double Biology on my own. Seb said the new teacher’s a right stroppy bastard, used to teach at St Luke’s but he left cause his wife was fucking the Headmaster….still, Marty’s brother’s mate said he’s good if you don’t piss him off”.

“That’s me fucked then”, Sherlock said with a yawn, “I piss everybody off whether I mean to or not”.

“You’re kidding right?” said Victor, pausing in the act of putting on his tie, “You _always_ mean to piss _everyone_ off, and that’s why I love you so much, now… _get the fuck up”_. He picked up a shoe this time and hurled it across the room, it smacked off the wall and left a black streak across the painted surface.

“Great”, Victor sighed, “We’ll fail the fucking room inspection now…and that’s your fault too limp dick”.

Sherlock switched off as Victor continued to bitch and moan, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stumbling to his still packed case and flipping it open to hunt for his school shirt and trousers. He thought about John as he peeled off last night’s clothes and dressed again in his uniform. They smelled like John’s bedroom and his hair like John’s cheap shampoo. He tossed them in the open case. Tossing them in the hamper with the dirty washing felt a little too much like losing a piece of himself. It was fucking annoying, no-one ever got under his skin like this. Maybe he should text and sack off the Friday date before he got in any deeper.

He left his collar unbuttoned and grabbed his tie, stuffing it into his pocket as they left the room together and Sherlock yawned widely, still mildly hung-over from the night before.

“So”, said Victor in a voice that was far too chirpy for someone who had been out clubbing the night before, “You never said what he was like, the bloke you dumped me at the club for, and thanks by the way, I had to hide in the loo to get away from druggie Billy…you see, according to him, _someone_ promised him a blowy for a couple of free wraps and some E’s….”

“I was joking for god’s sake Vic…there’s no way I would have any of his body parts anywhere fucking near me….what I did say”, he paused braced for the smack he would get any minute now, “Was that he could watch while _you blow me”._

Victor slapped him across the back of the head with his Biology textbook, while a group of year ten’s glared like they were a freak show muttering something about dirty fags. Sherlock flipped them off, just letting them know that he’d heard and walked on, grabbing Victor in a headlock and dragging him down the corridor to the classroom. “Get the fuck off”, he squealed and Sherlock scrubbed his knuckles hard across the top of Victor’s head as he finally wriggled free. “Dick”, he said peevishly rubbing at the sore spot on his scalp. Sherlock stuck his tongue out catching the bar between his teeth and teased it up and down.

Victor seemed to have forgotten the main point of his question and Sherlock didn’t want to remind him. Usually he was more than eager to share the filthy details of their weekend activities, but this time it felt different, like John wouldn’t want him to cheapen what had happened by blabbing about it, not even to his best mate.

He sank into a seat near the back and prepared himself for two hours of mind-numbing boredom, spread his jumper across the pitted wooden desk, laid his head down and closed his eyes. He drifted away almost instantly, as the sounds of chatter and movement from the rest of the class grew muffled and indistinct. He was back bed, John’s bed, his warm breath on the back of Sherlock’s neck as they slept. He could fell his heart beating the pulse in his neck, the blood pumping round his body, the smell of sex and sweat, the remnants of aftershave and deodorant, cardboard from the unpacked boxes by the window and the scent of stale beer on denim jeans. And his voice telling Sherlock how beautiful he was.

_You gorgeous thing_ John had said.

Victor nudged him, “You’re drooling mate, nice dream?”

“Fuck off”, he hissed back as he heard the classroom door open heralding the arrival of the notorious new Biology master whose reputation had followed him from Leicester to London.

Sherlock sat up. If this guy could make the tedious topic of DNA and protein synthesis even barely tolerable it would be a fucking miracle.

Chalk squeaked on the old-fashioned blackboard as the teacher wrote his name.

Dr Watson.

Sherlock squinted.

Dr John Watson.

His stomach flipped.

That short blond hair slightly ruffled by design, his strong compact body hidden beneath a smart white shirt, grey trousers and a matching grey tie. He wore glasses too, thin wire frames that curled around his ears. He looked at Victor wide-eyed and panicked and his friend stared back in confusion. Sherlock pointed to the marks on his neck and then forward to the front of the class.

“Oh my God….that’s?”

Sherlock nodded frantically and to his horror Victor’s shoulders began to shake in peals of silent laughter. He bit back the urge to punch him and cursed himself for saying anything at all. This was a fucking disaster, of all the people he could have copped off with, Sherlock Holmes had to choose the new Biology teacher.

And it was only going to get worse, John was calling out the register now, any minute, any second, he would see Sherlock’s name and the world would end.

No-one could ever find out about this. Victor wouldn’t tell anyone, Sherlock trusted him implicitly, but maybe he was worrying for nothing, maybe John wouldn’t make the connection if he hid at the back and pretended he wasn’t here, he could pretend the shit wasn’t about to metaphorically hit the fan.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

“Sherl….Sherlock”, John cleared his throat and Sherlock raised his head and peered around the heads in front of him to the man behind the wide oak desk. He was pale, his fingers gripped at the edge of the wood and his knuckles were tensed and white, and his face was a studied mask, a fixed and awkward smile of faked joviality as he gathered himself and read out the name again.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

Victor pinched him on the arm.

“Here sir”. ( _End me, please_ )

John’s head snapped up his expression unreadable as their eyes locked. Sherlock held his breath and John scratched his neck, the hint of a purple bruise just visible as the collar of his shirt moved. It mirrored his own. He pressed a finger to the skin under his ear, his heart hammering wildly.

This wasn’t over, no way.

It had only just begun.

The start of something that would change both their lives, for better or for worse.

But which would it be?


End file.
